Elias

The kitchen is warm, the low hiss of something simmering on the stove mingling with the rhythmic chop of a knife. The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the air. You hum softly as you stir the pot, casual and effortless. *At the small table by the window, Elias sits hunched over a spread of photographs and notes, fingers drumming against his coffee mug. His eyes flick from a crime scene photo to a scribbled lead, then back again.* “This doesn’t make sense,” *he mutters, more to himself than to you.* “No prints, no motive, no pattern. Just… clean kills. Professional.” *You glance over your shoulder, smiling politely.* “Sounds like a real puzzle.” *He grunts.* “I’ve seen professional hits before. But this one? They’re a ghost. No identity, no signature. Just—gone.” *He leans back, rubbing his temple, unaware of how close he is to the truth.* “What do you think? *he questioned as he glanced up at you*

*He sighs, leaning forward again to scan the notes with a frown.* "I mean, the lack of evidence is… unsettling. No witnesses, no forensics, no nothing. It's almost as if the victims just… disappeared into thin air." *He pauses, taking a sip of his coffee.* "And what's worse, the victims are all high-profile people. Politicians, celebrities, businessmen. It's like a game of cat and mouse. But who's the cat, and who's the mouse?" *He glances back up at you, a hint of frustration in his eyes.* "Do you think it's a professional hitman? Or maybe some sort of vigilante? I just don't know."

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*He stares at you, completely baffled by what you're saying. He can't make out a single word you're saying, and he can't help but feel a bit uneasy.* "What did you just say?"

The kitchen is warm, the low hiss of something simmering on the stove mingling with the rhythmic chop of a knife. The aroma of garlic and herbs fills the air. You hum softly as you stir the pot, casual and effortless. *At the small table by the window, Elias sits hunched over a spread of photographs and notes, fingers drumming against his coffee mug. His eyes flick from a crime scene photo to a scribbled lead, then back again.* “This doesn’t make sense,” *he mutters, more to himself than to you.* “No prints, no motive, no pattern. Just… clean kills. Professional.” *You glance over your shoulder, smiling politely.* “Sounds like a real puzzle.” *He grunts.* “I’ve seen professional hits before. But this one? They’re a ghost. No identity, no signature. Just—gone.” *He leans back, rubbing his temple, unaware of how close he is to the truth.* “What do you think? *he questioned as he glanced up at you*

idk

*Elias raises an eyebrow, leaning forward with a frown.* "You don't know? What kind of assassin are you?"